


a collection of what could've been

by vexahlla



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Class Swap AU, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexahlla/pseuds/vexahlla
Summary: A collection of the lives that could have been, if different choices were made. If different paths were chosen.(stories from the prompt, "send me a vox machina character + a class and i'll write it". originally posted on tumblr, now onto ao3.)





	1. bargains and deals, warlock!vex'ahlia

**Author's Note:**

> i'm always willing to write more about class swap au, just leave me your request in the comments below or on my tumblr (@noctlsargentum).
> 
> hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> profmyrtle asked: vex as a warlock? :D

Perhaps, Vex would like to think, that this has always been her fate. To strive for something so impossible, to strike a deal with a being holier or darker than thou to achieve it, and maybe live to tell it, this tale of hers.

When Vax took to the shadows, throwing daggers from the dark wisps of the night, the darkness clinging to him like an old cloak or a blanket, Vex’ahlia tried her hand at the bow. Evenings upon evenings turned into calloused hands, covered in bruises and blisters, leaving an ache in her back and her chest. Her aim was always off, and the disapproving looks from her teachers fared her heart no better. What was she to do, if not find comfort in the forests and the trees?

(And Vax, oh dear Vax, he tried to comfort her when her fears plagued her in the middle of the night, holding her close and telling her that she was more than enough, that she was everything. How little it did to ease her troubled heart.)

And how the troubles grew when Byroden was a smoldering mess of ash and the bones of the dead before them, the sickening smell of burnt and decay flesh surrounding them, leaving them standing in front of the burnt down house they used to call home. Home, where Mother’s laugh filled the kitchen, and where their heart’s were fonder, happier. Home, that could never be anymore.

(She cursed the Gods, that night, belittling them of their lack of aid; what good were they when they stood by and let the innocent turn to ash?)

She dreamt of hellfire, that night, of burning vengeance that consumed her from the inside out. The desire to strike down her mother’s killer, no matter the cost, was all that she wanted and cared for. But what good was that, if she could not fight?

In her dreams, she saw, a being taller than she had ever known; a lumbering giant of bronze skin and ashy hair, eyes blacker than the void itself. The glint in it’s eyes mischievous, daring, planning. If it’s goal was to make Vex’ahlia feel like an ant, than it had succeeded.

“I offer you that which you want the most,” it had said, it’s voice like thunder in her eardrums, “in exchange for your servitude.”

Vex’ahlia knew deals, and she knew when to take one and when to fold out of one. How could she not, when the streets were all the twins were forced to know? But this is a chance, perhaps her only chance, to do what she wants. To be able to be strong enough to claim what she wished.

“I accept,” she said, throat dry and burning when she breathes in the smoky air.

(There was never any other choice, she knew, but the way she choked on air when she awoke, staring into the campfire that should have died out long ago, desperate for the fresh cold air of the night made her wonder if this was the right one.)


	2. what lies in the dark, gunslinger!vax'ildan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derolo asked: vax as a gunslinger?
> 
> shorter chapter for vax, since i had a hard time imagining him as a gunslinger because of his reckless personality.

His hands have always been dirty, either with dirt or blood, and the sot and powder of his weapons make no difference. There has always been a saying about those with unclean hands, but Vax leaves the idle thought behind, intent on the cleaning of his barrels. Whisper is low on bullets, and they’re too far away from Vasselheim to return to Viktor. (And while he is grateful for the awkward meeting being missed out upon, the need for blackpowder will grow as the battles get longer.)

He makes use of Whitestone’s largely abandoned basement, had pulled down one of the tables and chairs from above to the bottom, and set to work. Scanlan had joked about being the one to drag him out of the dark in the morning, but Vax had waved him off. The guns needed cleaning, and so did he, although much later on.

While Whisper laid before him, almost polished in the candle light, next to him was the bigger gun, though he had no name for it. Not yet. He wonders again, much like he does when left alone with his thoughts for too long, what his mother would think of him now. (Never father, Father was a role that was never filled, Father is too generous of a title to the bastard that housed them.)

He tries to imagine her sitting across from him, asking the questions that the others ask him, but softer. “Now Vax’ildan,” he hoped she would say, “where in the blaze’s did you get _this_ idea.” The laughter that would hopefully escape her would bring out the light in her eyes, a fond smile that would adorn her face. Perhaps she would be the one to drag him out of the darkened room, pushing him towards the dining room with a soft sigh. She was always thinking of him, them, all three of them together.

He hoped she was proud of him, wherever she was. He hoped he was doing good with these sullied hands of his.

It’s all he really wanted, now.


	3. kord give me strength, cleric!grog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kahyrez asked: grog as a cleric?
> 
> cleric!grog is my jam, okay

Standing before the Herd know is not an experience Grog thought he’d lived to see. Westruun is in ruins, rubble coated with blood – innocent or wicked blood, it matters not, he knows, because all blood is the same when it is spilt – and innocents, _innocent_ people laid dead or half-dead in the streets. It would take days, weeks, even months for the city, his city, his home, to truly heal from this.

But the Herd? The Herd who caused all this? Who pledged faulty allegiance to a dragon that is hell-bent on hunts and survival? That is not his Herd, has never been. (”Where’s the fucking honor in that?” was one of many thoughts when walking to the center of town.) His _family_  was Vox Machina, and it has always and always will be them. Their strength is his strength, their mercy is his. It has always been.

His Holy symbol of Kord feels heavy on his chest, but he breathes in the deep ash-tainted air of the ruins of Westruun and walks forward. Kevdak awaits, and the rest of them as well, but Grog has run from them for too long.

His plated footsteps echo throughout the city, a loud thud that continues on until he can see the beginning marks of the town square. Or what used to be, at least.

(He knows that Percy is around, the sneaky bastard, most likely jumping from rooftop to rooftop, quiet as a mouse. He knows Vex is around as well, most likely, using her magic to keep herself hidden, hands ready to burn what may come; Vax would not be too far from her, clutching tight to Whisper and the bigger gun, holding them close and keeping Grog in his sights.

That leaves only the other three left in his mind, wandering from idle thought to another. Keyleth, axe in hand, ready to charge forth. Pike, holding her musical instrument fast to her chest, waiting for her best friend to give the signal. Scanlan, tiny Scanlan with many wands and probably too many books, eager to throw a fireball or too around.

It gives him comfort, much like the holy symbol around his neck and resting on his chest, that his family is around.)

Kevdak’s hulking form comes into view, and Grog sees the smoke from the nearby building rising. Just how much damage would they do? What lengths would they go to sate their bloodlust? How many people would die from their hands?

Grog’s left hand comes to clutch the symbol, and he lets out a small prayer before a grin breaks out on his face.

_Let’s end this._


	4. legacy, what is a legacy? rogue!percival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derolo asked: percy rogue just for funsies
> 
> rogue!percy gives me a lot of feelings, especially since cassandra is also a rogue.

The children of Frederick de Rolo, Lord of Whitestone, were born with the innate knowledge of swordplay. It was practically drilled into their muscles and mind from the earliest memories of their childhood, from calloused hands to aching knees, swordplay was their brush, and the world their canvas. Percival has many memories of a sword and shield in hand, sweat rolling down his face and back as Julius would come around for another swing, attempting to break through his guard that he’s kept up for too long.

(Father would always stare in the doorway of the courtyard, eyes scrutinizing their every movement, or the way they’d swing. It would do poorly, Vesper told him once, to have father’s disapproval at all.

Percival had replied that night with a scowl, “What does it matter to me?”

Vesper sighed, running a hand through her hand, much like she did when under stress. “It should be everything to a child of a de Rolo.”)

He’s been practicing his swings with a greatsword for over three hours, slicing with little precision against the training dummy, sending shards of wood scattering everywhere. Moonlight has already hung over the Castle, but Frederick stands there with arms crossed, “Again.”

Percival huffs, letting the tip of the sword rest in the dirt of the ground, and reaches up with his hand to wipe the bead of sweat off his forehead. (It does no good, because he is drenched and soaked already. It only makes him feel worse.) He knows better to speak out against his father, so he turns his frustrations into the power of his next swing.

It goes wide, and he stumbles, dropping to a knee as the greatsword clatters to the dirt again. (He can’t help it, he wants to say, because his arms ache and his chest hurts, and he is tired, tired of all this practice and swordplay. He is so tired.)

His father says something, but his mind is already tuning out his voice. He is aching for his bed by now, and drags himself to his feet. He remembers, somewhat, his father calling him back to the courtyard because ‘a de Rolo will learn to protect himself.’

He cursed his father under his breath and locked the door to his room, and placed his desk chair under the knob for extra measure.

* * *

“What is this?”

“Something I had made for you,” replies Vesper with a roll of her eyes. It is a summer evening, and they could be doing better things with their time. Hanging out in the courtyard when the sun burns against their back is not what they should be doing.

“Couldn’t you just have it delivered to my room?” Percy says, staring at his sister in half-annoyance and half-curiosity.

Vesper huffs, and drags him along. “Could you not be a child for once?”

“Your advice has been duly noted, Sister.”

“Arse.”

She drags him near the gardens, and he notes the oak wood box that awaits them at a bench. It’s small, ornamented, and meant for something great. His curiosity grows. Inside the box are two lovingly and well-crafted daggers, which he takes great care when lifting, inspecting the hilt and the weight.

“Arming daggers?”

“Only the best for my dearest brother.”

He gives her a look. “But why?”

“Because,” Vesper shrugs. “I heard you telling Whitney that you hate the heavy weight of swords.”

* * *

He carries the daggers with him everywhere, even when he’s running from the Briarwoods, clutching Cassandra’s hand to pull her along. He carries them when he falls downstream, and he awakes with them near his bed on the fisherman’s boat. They become something of a memorial, in those years.

He loses them, only once, when he goes after Ripley; he is stripped of his armor and his weapons, left only with his underclothes and bruises and cuts along his arms and his chest, down his legs and back. It hurts worse losing the weapons than it does his blood.

Funny, how the pain of losing his family can be crafted in the metal of a blade. The separation is all the same to him now.


	5. big monster, little monstah, gunslinger!grog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kahyrez asked: Three more then, Grog as the gunslinger (it would be funny if percy remained too), Percy as a Druid, and Pike as a warlock?
> 
> part 1; gunslinger!grog.
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

Grog’s not smart. He knows that, because sometimes the words on a page hurt his head when he stares at them for too long, trying to figure what they say. He knows it because sometimes, his family will talk for too long about how they _should_ fight instead of just charging in, ready to bash some faces in. He’s not smart, he knows that, being super smart like that isn’t something that was needed in the Herd. In the Herd, you just needed to have the strength to fight and the desire to kill, pretty easy, right?

See, here’s the thing though, where Grog isn’t _book-_ smart, because there is a difference and he knows that, he’s smart about weapons. When he was stayin’ with Pike and Wilhand, there was this idea, you see, and when he thought real hard about it, he knew he could make it.

Not overnight, ‘course, because no one makes a fuckin’ monster of a weapon overnight, but overtime. He did work around Westruun with Pike, helping raise some money, most of it going back to the Trickfoot’s because it’s the nice thing to do, and the rest he saves on the side ‘cause this thing he’s thinking about is gonna take a long time and a lotta things to make it.

So, he waits, and tries to draw out the idea that he sees in his brain. Pike helps, sometimes, if she can see what’s he trying to do. But seeing and understanding are two different things, so he’s mostly on his own for this one. That’s alright, though, because only he knows how he wants this to be. It’s a lotta work, and he’s not good in the brain department really, but he puts things together and if they work; well, they work.

It takes, well, years for it to work properly. And then when he had _it_  completed, but it wouldn’t fire, Pike had the smart idea for them both to go to Vasselheim. “They have everything!” she said, when Wilhelm was still helping them pack their bags. “It’s going to be fun, right, Grog?”

He only gave her a giant grin in return.

* * *

 

When the human - Percy, or something - joined their group, it was a bit of a surprise. See, he’s got what Grog’s got, but one’s a bit smaller and the other one doesn’t pack a big of a punch that Grog’s used to. (He - Percy - called them Bad News and the List, and sometimes Grog wonders if he should’a named his as well.)

“How in the hell did you make this?” Percy asks one night over dinner, gesturing to Grog’s weapon.

Grog shrugs. “I just did.”

“Just like that?”

“There a wrong way to make it?”

“No,” Percy says, backing down. “I just, ah, it surprises me is all.”

* * *

 

In the end, he calls it Phillip. Pike is the one who helps him etch the name onto the barrel.


	6. and how these bonds root me to the place i belong, druid!percy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kahyrez asked: Three more then, Grog as the gunslinger (it would be funny if percy remained too), Percy as a Druid, and Pike as a warlock?
> 
> part two: druid percy
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

The Sun Tree was always beautiful in the spring.

He'd spend many young days out near the Sun Tree, finding comfort near the oaken roots that they'd sit upon in the spring or the branches that blocked out the too harsh sun during the summer; in winter, he'd come down and just sit, letting his nerves unwind despite the looks people would give him as they walked by. Nature always calmed him, and it always brought him back home, in the end.

Percy remembers going out hunting with Julius (though it wasn't  _his_  idea, of course, because Percy was content sitting in the library reading the rest of the days away) one fair spring morning, armed with a bow and a sword, cloaked in fine leathers and the warmest wool Whitestone could have, they set out towards the southern forest. It wasn't as if Percy disliked hunting, or that he disliked Julius (though he was close to, most days) but more of the fact that he'd rather be  _around_ nature instead of hunting those who lived in it.

That hunt, Julius and him had gotten separated, his brother opting to sneak ahead and take down the stag they were stalking. Percy had taken that as his cue to move ahead on his own terms, letting his feet guide him to wherever his mind wanted. Getting lost in his daydreams was a habit that Percy couldn't be bothered to break.

He doesn't remember, actually, too much of the hunt now that he thinks on it. It was dark when he looked up towards the sky - no longer the bright blue sky that greeted him, but rather the darkening purples and oranges of the setting sun. Maybe that's why Julius took too long in finding him, or simply didn't bother. It didn't matter. Percy didn't want to be found either way. Nature was enchanting, fulfilling, it soothed the aches in his soul and his bones. It comforted him like a mother holding her child. It ignited the magic that filled his veins, he could feel it upon the cool breeze of the wind, or the roots of the trees. When it rained, that's when he really feel it, desperate to release the energy he felt, but never knowing how.

Magic was in the de Rolo's veins whether his father liked it or not.

"How do I get home?" he asked no one in particular, hearing his voice echo throughout the forest only to be met by silence. It was unnerving, that. He was more surprised he didn't feel hunger or dehydration as severe as he  _should_ be right now; maybe another effect of this not-so-dormant magic of his.

A cold breeze brushes past. He tries again: "Help me get home."

Another breeze, more silence.

He decides to move on his own, pushing himself onto tired and aching feet, and stops. An arctic fox stares at him, blinks slowly, and he can only stare back. When it turns and begins to walk away, he follows it like a child would his mother. Luck has it, the fox waits for him when Percy struggles climbing over logs, or when his pace slows due to the shake in his legs. It waits for him even when he calls out Julius' name, wondering if his brother is as lost as he. He feels inclined to search, but the gnawing hunger in his stomach makes him move forward. If Julius is smart, then he'll find his own way home just like Percy has. (He hopes Julius is as smart as Percy believes him to be.)

The fox does not lead him astray; they follow the connecting roots of trees, they walk along with the rushing stream that he's quite sure leads towards the lake near Whitestone. Percy even finds the North Star in the night sky, and knows he is on the right path. When he sees the vague, but familiar shape of Whitestone's walls and houses in the distance, he feels like he could cry. The fox stops, sits down, and stares at him still when he finds the dirt path back to home.

"Thank you," he says, and lets his feet guide his body back to the comfortable confines of the castle. When he passes through the town square, he swears the Sun Tree watches him as he goes.

* * *

The Sun Tree is still beautiful, when he goes back home.

The Briarwoods have ravaged Whitestone, and the Sun Tree is a dying, deathly thing but still he finds it beautiful in a way. He can  _fix_ this, he knows he can. He must, if only to bring back the fallen memories of his family and his home.

The Sun Tree is a beautiful thing, and it's roots have always and will always lead him back to his home, no matter where he goes. This he knows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't sure how to write a druid percy, to be completely honest. i've a lot of feelings about the meaning of home, and the Sun Tree and what they mean to the de Rolo's and to Percy, though.


	7. what i have given, and what i have lost, warlock!pike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kahyrez asked: Three more then, Grog as the gunslinger (it would be funny if percy remained too), Percy as a Druid, and Pike as a warlock?
> 
> part three: warlock!pike
> 
> hope you enjoy!

The Trickfoot's have always had a bigger hand guiding them along the way, Pike figures. It's only logical, to have outside help, when they've made this big of a name for themselves.

Still, Pike finds, Archfey's are  _fucking_ creepy. They're whimsical, sure, and are more devious than cruel, but in the end they're terrifying gods. This one, who has visited her dreams more recently than not, is creepier than most; Titania of the Summer Court, they introduced themself as, but Pike has never bowed to a godlike being before. She doesn't start planning to now. (Perhaps that's how all Trickfoot's end up far away from  _Her_ Grace, perhaps this is why Wilhelm wanted a new life away from the family name. She doesn't know.)

The Archery doesn't speak, per se, more so Pike knows what she wants while the dream around her changes into different landscapes or hues of colour. All of it ends up melding together anyway, and it feels more like a nightmare-esque drawing from a small child than a half-reality. What the Archfey  _wants_ however is what Pike finds concerning, or confusing, or both. It doesn't want anything, except only to give. To give out the secrets that it has kept for centuries, to give them out of the goodness of their heart.

( _Yeah, right,_ Pike snorts.)

It asks what she wants, what she desires, that it can grant Pike the wish of her lifetime. Pike doesn't want for much, really, maybe for Wilhelm to be  _real_ proud of her again instead of shaking his head when she comes back home with pockets filled with trinkets that she definitely did not pay for. Maybe she wants to see her parents again, instead of only having a vague memory of them, their silhouettes the only visible detail about them. Pike's not sure where they went, really, only that Wilhelm is her family now, and she's close to losing him, too.

She wants friends, she decides, she wants friends and a family and maybe if they're the same, then that's okay. As long as they don't leave.

It, they, whatever-the-fuck creepy god or god-like being smiles. "Consider it done."

* * *

Grog comes first, covered in bruises and blood and maybe some broken bones that Pike isn't all too sure how to fix. Wilhelm does, though, because Sarenrae was kind enough to show him how to heal and to mend, instead of how to steal and break. When he's awake and able to walk around, he sticks to Pike like glue, and she can't help but be happy.

From Grog, it goes to the twins, stealthy and devious as well in their own right, and Pike often competes with them; always trying to see who can steal the most, or who can make the biggest mess. She likes them, of course, but they don't beat her buddy Grog at all.

From them, to Scanlan, all witty jokes and songs and laughter, and they get along like a wildfire. She still remembers, fondly, the time she made Scanlan laugh so hard that ale came out her nose. She doesn't think she'll forget it in a lifetime.

Keyleth comes next, beautiful and glowing and divine in all her glory. An array of colours that reminds Pike of her dreams and her deal, but softer and warmer and comforting in a way that Pike never wants to leave. When Keyleth smiles, Pike's heart races and she wonders if the magic in the air is what makes her dizzy, or if it's the heart that flutters in her chest.

Shortly after, they find Tiberius, bumbling and tall in all his right. He's an imposing figure, but a softie at heart. Pike only draws on his face while he sleeps once. She enjoys the company they spend together when the others are away. It's nice, she thinks, to have all these friends.

Percy is last, and he is a stark contrast to their lot. The first week with him, it was silence, he never spoke unless spoken too, and he kept his head in his notebook, scribbling away at whatever came to mind. When he opens up to them, he blooms like a flower in the dawn; his ideas of pranks are genius, and third only to her and Vax, but there's always the affectionate sigh and shake of the head when he catches her mid-act. He never tells though. Pike likes him, she knows.

A family's a family, and she wants to keep them safe until her dying breath.

(She didn't realize how soon it'd be, that dying breath of hers.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me at [tumblr](http://calebwidogst.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/calebwidodad)
> 
> hope you enjoyed!


End file.
